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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24125098">The Brink</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account'>orphan_account</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>House M.D.</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Fluff, M/M, Pain, Sadness, Smut, Suicide, Wilson is very sad :(, more characters as I go along - Freeform, more tags as I continue writing, the works, vicodin overdose</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 16:02:03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,455</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24125098</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Brought back from the brink of death, House starts seeing life in a new light. More specifically, he figures out just what makes his life bright.</p>
<p>This is basically a re-write of the season six finale, followed by, essentially, a re-write of season seven. I don't know about you, but I could not stand the Cuddy/House arc, so I decided to write my own reality.</p>
<p>Warning: There are graphic depictions of suicide, cutting, and violence and mental illness in general, so please be wary if you have any issues with these things.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Greg House &amp; James Wilson, Greg House/James Wilson</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>72</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Vicodin</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Warning: Graphic depictions of suicide ahead. Please be careful.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>House stares at the pill bottle in his hand. He slowly turns it around, reading over the label and watching the blood from his hand slowly turn the waxy paper into a dull pink. The word “Vicodin” is faded, but he can read it clearly. This is what he deserves. He needs to leave.</p>
<p>He couldn’t even save one fucking girl. She needed to live, deserved it. Not many people do, but she did, and he fucking killed her. He needed to save her like he saves everyone else, but he couldn’t this time.</p>
<p>House looks down at his clothes, staring at the dirt and dried blood that coats him. He can’t tell if blood is his or the girls. It doesn’t matter now.</p>
<p>Cuddy was right. He is worthless. He hurts everyone he touches. He is a stubborn asshole who destroys the lives of everyone he knows just because he can, never giving a single empathetic thought to anyone around him. House lets out a strangled sigh and holds an arm over his eyes, letting the tears soak his sleeve rather than fall onto his cheeks.</p>
<p>Suddenly, House’s mind is torn from his thoughts when he feels a patter on his leg. He sees the blood quickly dripping down onto his thigh, pooling on the ground in small puddles, and he sees the blood pooling in his palm, slowly dripping over the side. His wrists are sliced to shreds, bits of glass and plaster stuck throughout causing ripples of pain to slice through his arm. Whatever, it’ll help the process go faster at the very least.</p>
<p>House slowly twists the lid off the bottle. It’s full. </p>
<p>His mind goes blank. He knows what he has to do. In a swift motion, he raises the bottle to his lips, pouring the contents into his mouth, forcing himself to dry swallow every last pill, gagging at the resistance. Eventually, he downs the bottle, the taste of iron exaggerated by the dryness in his mouth.</p>
<p>House lies down on the floor, resting his head on his arm, the blood soaked fabric cooling his forehead. </p>
<p>Finally, he’s getting the fate he deserves. He’s never been worthy of life anyway.</p>
<p>He closes his eyes and waits.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>----</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>------------------</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Light flutters across his eyelids. Slowly, he opens his eyes, vision blurry and soft. The bathroom light is flickering. House closes his eyes again.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>------------------------</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>-----</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>It’s cold.</p>
<p>--------------------------------------------------</p>
<p>---</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>--------------------------</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>---------------</p>
<p>“House?.....House?”</p>
<p>Someone is talking. At least, House thinks someone is. Slowly, he opens his eyes. The world is groggy and fragmented, and the light is still flickering. Everything is ringing. He hears a dull thud as the front door slams shut, and footsteps sound out. He can feel the slight vibrations in the floor as the person in his house walks in. </p>
<p>“House, where are you? Are you even here right now?”</p>
<p>House’s vision clears a bit. He lifts his head a bit and looks around the room. His mouth tastes of vomit, and he looks down to see that he’s thrown up all over his arm and the floor. House tries to sit up, but he can’t seem to move very much at all. Suddenly, he spys the empty pill bottle just a few inches from his face, and he remembers what he’s done. The sounds are just a hallucination conjured up by his brain as it fights against death, creating any reality that could save him. He closes his eyes again. He should be done soon.</p>
<p>The footsteps grow closer. A familiar voice calls out something.</p>
<p>The door to the bathroom swings open, the hinges squeaking loudly with the force. </p>
<p>“......House?”</p>
<p>House opens his eyes and slowly, painfully, turns his head to the door. He sees Wilson. Terrified Wilson. </p>
<p>The regret floods in instantly.</p>
<p>Wilson stands at the door for a few seconds, face contorted with shock and pain and fear. House lies on the floor, staring up at the man before him.</p>
<p>How could he have fucking done this? How the FUCK could he have done this??? He can’t die! He doesn’t want to die, he never did! What the fuck did he do? Oh my God, what the fuck did he do?? </p>
<p>“House!”</p>
<p>Wilson rushes forward and grabs House, yanking him up by the arms. </p>
<p>“What the fuck happened? What the fuck did you do House?!” </p>
<p>House’s head lulls back, and Wilson places a hand on House’s neck, pulling his head back up. His eyes are glazed over, and the pupils are so small he can barely tell if they’re there. Wilson looks at the blood and vomit spread on his shirt, and quickly spys the Vicodin bottle laying on the floor next to them, empty. A new surge of fear rushes through him. He pulls out his phone, holding house up with one arm and placing the phone to his ear with another. House’s head falls on his chest, and Wilson places a hand on the back of his head, pulling the other man close to him.</p>
<p>The operator picks up, and Wilson says in a panicked voice, “I need an ambulance, I have a man overdosing on Vicodin…”</p>
<p>After giving the address, Wilson puts down the phone and immediately turns to House. His body is limp in his arms.</p>
<p>Wilson picks up his chin, forcing House to look into his eyes. Both are crying.</p>
<p>“House..” Wilson speaks with a pained voice, choked by tears. “House, look at me, look at me, ok? I’m not going to let you die, ok? You’re not going to die, you can’t die. You can’t die, House, you can’t do this to me.”</p>
<p>Wilson pulls House’s body close to his. He lets House’s head rest on his shoulder, and he places a hand on the back of his hand, running his fingers through his hair in soft circles.</p>
<p>“What the fuck were you thinking? Oh my God, you can’t die.”</p>
<p>Pressed against Wilson’s chest, feeling tears slowly fall onto his shoulder, reality comes crashing down around House. What was he thinking? He didn’t want to die. He let one case get to him. Why did he do this? Tears well in his eyes.</p>
<p>Fighting the bloody soreness of his throat and the blackness edging at the corners of his vision, House speaks out.</p>
<p>“I….I’m sorry.”</p>
<p>Everything goes dark.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Waking Up</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>House wakes up.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Despite what he may have read in medical studies or witness reports, or from what he had seen firsthand at Plainsboro, House had always imagined that waking up from something like this would be slow. Fragments returning in short and dull bursts as bits of sound and color return to his senses. Like a puzzle of the world around him slowly coming together piece by piece. </p>
<p>Instead, however, House’s eyes suddenly shoot open and he’s awake. </p>
<p>The light is blinding, and he immediately closes his eyes again. His closed eyes burn a bright red as he furiously shuts them, the blazing white world searing into his mind, which just seconds before held nothing but cold darkness. </p>
<p>Slowly, the pain ebbs as his eyes adjust to his environment, and he cautiously opens his eyes and looks around.</p>
<p>He’s looking up at a white, sterile ceiling. A heart monitor beeps somewhere beside him, and he can feel the patches stuck to his chest pulling at his skin, which he already knew weren’t going to be fun to pull off when he got out of here. </p>
<p>House lifts his head slightly, but immediately feels the throbbing pain that screams out from his throat. He forces his head back onto the pillow, grimacing. It must have been scraped to hell when they put the tube down his throat to pump his stomach. To get the Vicodin. The fucking Vicodin.</p>
<p>Memories of that night flood his brain. House feels tears spring to his eyes which he tries to stifle, but eventually slow trails of tears quietly stream down his face. </p>
<p>How could he have been so stupid? He’d lost patients before. He’d lost a lot of fucking patients. Hanna should have been no different. Why was she different? </p>
<p>House lays his head to the side, feeling the pillow beneath him become damp. He feels a pressure on his arms, and looks down to see the thick bandages wrapped around his wrists. He must have had at least fifty stitches, if what he remembers from that Vicodin infused night can be trusted. A faint pink hue is starting to peek out from under the layers of gauze. It’ll need to be changed soon.</p>
<p>House takes a better look at the room around him. The dull gray wallpaper tells him that he’s definitely in Plainsboro. A completely average looking painting of trees in a valley sits on the wall in front of him. The slats of the window blinds slowly shift and sway under the breeze of the air conditioner, revealing the dark night time outside. The illuminated walkway outside cuts in and out of existence at the lamppost flickers, moths fluttering around the warm shifty glow.</p>
<p>How many nights had passed since he died? Had he died? It felt real. The black nothingness was so cold.</p>
<p>So, so cold.</p>
<p>House forces the memory out of his mind. The heart monitor continues to beat at a steady rate, proving that he was really, truly alive. He supposes that the thought should make him happy. </p>
<p>He did regret it. He did. He doesn’t even know why he saved that last Vicodin stash behind the mirror. He was clean! He had no need to keep something like that. He graduated from the mental home, got his medical license back, and according to most people, was apparently acting nicer! At least a little. He was a normal, functioning, un-addicted member of society. This was just a lapse in common sense, nothing to worry about. He should be ecstatic that he’s alive, and that he didn’t die from what was, ultimately, a huge mistake. </p>
<p>Instead, though, he just feels….empty.</p>
<p>He looks up at the IV bag resting on it’s metal stand, the liquid in the plastic tubing dripping down into the crease of his elbow. The thought of it makes the feeling of the taped up needle in his arm unbearably real. He shifts uncomfortably, and feels something soft brush up against his arm. House turns to the other side and sees the head of silky brown hair resting on his bedside.</p>
<p>Wilson.</p>
<p>The monitor’s beeping becomes quicker.</p>
<p>House’s eyes grow wide and he immediately removes his arm from Wilson’s head, quickly moving as far to the other side of the bed as he could, ignoring the aching pain that the movement made explode throughout his body.</p>
<p>House looked at the man beside him, and it quickly became clear that he was asleep. Wilson was resting his head on an arm, his chest hunched over the side of the bed. His chest slowly rose and fell. House could feel the minute vibrations of his breathing on the mattress, even the smallest shift echoing through House’s fingertips.</p>
<p>House carefully leaned over to have a better look at the man beside him. He didn’t see any of his own blood or vomit on Wilson’s shirt, so he must have been asleep or comatose or whatever long enough to allow him to change clothes. House is suddenly painfully aware of the sweat and grease resting on his own face, and he shudders slightly at the feeling.</p>
<p>Wilson shifts his head slightly, and House becomes hyper-aware of his presence beside him. The empty feeling in his chest still remains, but he dons a surprised expression when he can feel something underneath the dull exterior. Like a spark faintly shining through the darkness. It quietly throbs within him. He looks at Wilson. His bangs shift, a few strands falling to rest on the mattress.</p>
<p>He doesn’t want to think about it, but he knows he should have stayed alive for him.</p>
<p>He turns away from Wilson.</p>
<p>Suddenly, in the corner of his eye, House spots a bottle on the bedside table. Turning towards the table, he spies a bottle of ibuprofen. Wilson must have brought it in for himself. House grimaces at the thought of the headache Wilson must have had through all of this. </p>
<p>Then another thought pops up into his mind. A much more painful one. </p>
<p>Maybe he did deserve to die.</p>
<p>His mind empties of all thoughts except one. He deserved to die. He deserved to die. God he really fucking deserved to die.<br/>Slowly, he reaches out a hand towards the bottle. His fingertips brush the cool plastic exterior of the bottle. </p>
<p>It hadn’t worked the first time, but maybe it would now.</p>
<p>He begins to wrap his fingers around the container, but a ripple of excruciating pain suddenly jolts through his arm. House lets out a pained gasp, moaning through gritted teeth as he forces his body down into the mattress, holding the arm tightly to his chest. He can feel hot tears stream down his cheek again.</p>
<p>Then, through the pain, something stirs beside him. Wilson lifts his head.</p>
<p>“...House?”</p>
<p>Wilson immediately shoots out of his chair and leans over the man curled up in bed in front of him. </p>
<p>“House, oh my god, House, you’re awake. You're awake, you're awake, oh my god! Are..are you okay? What hurts? House?”</p>
<p>House looks up at Wilson’s face. Tears flow down his cheeks, and even through the pain he can feel the teardrops slowly fall on his gown and seep through, wetting his skin.</p>
<p>The pain slowly begins to lessen, and House can immediately feel his body loosen up, and he rests more comfortably on the bed. He lets out a relieved sigh.</p>
<p>“It’s fine, it’s fine...just my arm. It’s fine now.”</p>
<p>Wilson’s concerned expression relaxes slightly, but House can still see the worry peering out through his eyes. House thinks to himself that Wilson's neediness was probably having the time of it’s life now, but he immediately regrets the joke, even if it was just in his own head. </p>
<p>Looking at House, Wilson reaches a hand out and runs it through House’s hair, the movement of his fingertips against the back of his head sending a calming feeling through him. The touch feels foreign, but nice, nonetheless.</p>
<p>Wilson removes his hand from House’s head and instead wraps it around his chest as he leans over and places his head on House’s chest, wrapping the man in a tight embrace.</p>
<p>Wilson’s weight on his chest feels nice. House can hear Wilson quietly begin to cry, and his gown becomes wet under Wilson’s head.</p>
<p>“God, House, what did you do?”</p>
<p>House keeps his arms at his side, unmoving, letting Wilson hold him.</p>
<p>What did he do?</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I am so sorry this took so long! After this, updates will be more regular and frequent! I'm not sure how long this is going to be, but I'll just see as I go along. Criticisms and comments are greatly appreciated! Thank you!</p>
<p>Also, my tumblr is @2robotgirl, if any of you wanted to know. I have like two followers, but the more the merrier I suppose!</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thanks for reading! Please let me know if you have any criticism. I'm not very good or experienced at writing yet, so I'd love to get some tips! Also, let me know if anyone actually wants me to continue this lol.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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